


Mask

by ouiaboux



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren is a Mess, POV Kylo Ren, Snoke Being a Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 00:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ouiaboux/pseuds/ouiaboux
Summary: He needs the mask.





	Mask

**Author's Note:**

> It's Celebration weekend, babes. I've been sitting on this angsty Kylo drabble for a minute.

 

Snoke tells him that Vader's helmet was more than just a mask -- it was his true face. 

 

He reminds Ben that he can hide his own face from his family, the First Order, and the Resistance…but he’ll never be able to hide from him. It’s a promise.

 

He’s a part of him, he reminds him, as he has always been and shall always be. It’s supposed to comfort him, he thinks.

 

Ben remembers the beginning. A slow-growing mass of menace clawing its way into his consciousness and taking root. The soil of a burgeoning mind, flooded with emotions that are too new to be named, is fertile. What had been light and joy is replaced with dread and pain. A boy is plunged into darkness against his will. 

 

All things must end. He clings to that hope very early, and buries it so deep that neither of them can find it. What is sacrificed willingly cannot be stolen from him. 

 

He focuses on the sensation of his arm going numb when Snoke places his hand on his shoulder. There’s never been any warmth in this gesture. 

 

The way of the Jedi is flawed, Snoke declares, and often. The fingers dig in. Understanding through repetition. 

 

There’s a balance that must be maintained. A very delicate, ancient balance. The Sith understand this innately. The dichotomy of master and apprentice fosters this balance. Snoke loosens his grip and the feeling returns to Ben’s arm immediately. 

 

All who lead must serve and shall continue to serve the will of the Force. The two of them belong to this group. Those who lead well shall have their share of disciples. _Servants_ , Ben thinks, _like him_. He holds the idea in his mind. He finds the possibility magnetic. 

 

It is through Snoke’s mentorship alone that Ben can be crafted into one of the force’s most powerful vessels. And it’s through this damned balance that Snoke can exercise his will, and transform Ben into a fine disciple. This all feels…familiar. 

 

_A loyal disciple._

 

He is the wet clay from which a weapon, unlike anything the galaxy has seen in a generation, can be molded. A Skywalker, tethered.  It will be Snoke’s greatest triumph, and it’s the will of the Force. Ben can feel it reaching out to him across time and space, and it’s calling to him — so impossibly loud that he barely hears Snoke ask him if he has decided on a new name for himself. 

 

Who does he want to be? 

 

***

 

The dreadnaught appears on the horizon in all its grotesque immensity. He’ll be within range soon, and the tractor beam will do the rest. It won’t be long.

 

He retreats into the thick metal skull he molded for himself. Metal and resin are a comfort.

 

Without the mask, he knows he’ll choke on the thick miasma of battle and the lung-searing melange of burning flesh, charred armor, and smoldering foliage.

 

He wonders what it would take to be sealed inside his mask forever, to rely on it to survive and to feel its makeup welded invariably to that detestable flesh that burns, breaks, and bleeds so easily. _So weak._

 

What manner of sacrifice would it take for him to demonstrate his worth? Would fire be enough to tear him apart and destroy Ben Solo once and for all? 

 

What would Snoke think then, his apprentice returned to him an unrecognizable mass? And when it was all over, how much of him would be left to bask in the warmth of Snoke’s praise? 

 

Death and destruction spreads out before him. And behind him. Everywhere around him. 

 

*** 

 

He finds himself in an unremarkable room that he calls his quarters. Spartan, and in that respect, unbecoming of his rank, but that’s trivial. It furnishes him with all that he needs, which is very little these days. It possesses two key qualities: it’s sound-proof and unlisted in the ship’s manifest. He couldn’t ask for more. 

 

With a gesture, he extinguishes the light and the room assumes the form of a deprivation chamber, lodged in the belly of a dreadnaught hurtling toward the Outer Rim at a pace that would see it exiting hyperspeed in several standard hours. Sufficient time for him to prepare for what he must do next. 

 

He begins a meditative, deliberate dance he can only manage in complete darkness.  

 

First, he kneels. 

 

The floor is further than he thinks and the steel more cold. He allows it to become part of the dance. _Unexpected._

 

Then, he seeks the release on the side of his helmet. The servo motors disengage, and the mask falls into his hands. He notices the weight of it every time. _Consistent_. 

 

He sets it aside. He discards the helmet next, placing it alongside the mask with care.  His fingers, straining beneath his dueling gloves, traverse the ruinous flesh of his face. The skin is pulled tight and sutured, cleaving his cheek, his jaw, his throat, his shoulder…he draws his wandering hand inward where it joins the other. 

 

The closes his eyes to the darkness of the room. 

 

It happens quickly this time. There’s a flash of blinding white. He can see clouds carve mountainous shapes in a morning sky. He leans into the vision and allows it to unfold before him. Not clouds, these mountains are real — snow-capped giants dominating a skyline in a way that he’s unsure he could put into words. A river travels between them. This is a place he’s seen many times, though he’s never been there before. 

 

The vision presses on, taking him over the mountains and plunging him into the valley below. Columns of ice cut into the sky like jagged teeth.

 

No, not ice…buildings, with silver spires and smooth domes. A palace. His chest tightens as a wave of realization washes over him. This is the homeworld of his mother, as she had known it best. She played in the shadow of these mountains as a child. A bright beacon of resilience in the early age of the rebellion...now little more than scattered debris. A blank space on a star map. This was Alderaan.

 

He banishes the vision and  returns to the room, the darkness folding in around him. There’s pain. 

 

The tips of his fingers grind against his cheek. He…hadn’t felt it. He thumbs the deep ravine there, like the one slicing the mountains slopes in his vision. The analogy is an unwelcome visitor in his thoughts. 

 

_Why_ , he thinks. _Why did it take me there? What does it want me to see?_

 

A fire burns beneath his skin. The scar that cleaves his face shouldn't belong to him, but it does. He wishes he could silence the muscle and bone that cry out in the aftermath of battle. It’s noise to him. This body of his yields too much feedback.

 

The flesh is weak, but malleable. He is built up and torn apart every day. If not by Snoke’s will, then by the will of the Force.

 

Everything it shows him brings his grief closer to the surface. He is nothing more than a vessel for pain and suffering. 

 

He needs the mask. 

 


End file.
